


Scenario 3.

by virginie



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9158464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginie/pseuds/virginie
Summary: “It began as a thought experiment,” said Gilfoyle, “But after some consideration it became clear to me that it’s the best solution."





	

Getting into a groove with coding was something that only happened rarely. Where Dinesh felt like he was flying instead of stumbling. Where he could see three or four lines ahead and his fingers were pushing the keys as fast as possible just to keep up with his brain. It felt so damn good, and it made up for days of slow progress and uninspired tapping, stops and starts and stack overflow. It was the precious moments like these that gave him what little innate confidence he had, the tiny kernel of real confidence, not just the bravado he put on around other developers.

Gilfoyle saw straight through him of course, he couldn’t hide anything from that damned Canadian. But whereas Jared would interrupt him without a moment’s thought—for all his respect for developers, he could be completely insensitive to the flow—in those moments Gilfoyle would avoid disturbing him at all costs. He knew how special it felt, how brilliant and powerful. How it felt to cut through the slog with a moment of surprising insight, blow a redundancy out of the water, make everything a tiny bit better. So even though he and Gilfoyle never missed an opportunity to brutalise each other publicly, it didn’t run any deeper than that. Some subterranean level down, below detection by anyone except Jared—and who the hell knew why he gave a damn—they had each other’s backs.

Dinesh found himself daydreaming sometimes, imaging how it must feel to be in the flow in real life. To think and speak with inspiration instead of crushing self-consciousness. To act on his desires without hesitation. It must be a kind of grace, the state Erlich seemed to exist in permanently—albeit in his case a clumsy grace—but it must feel so fucking wonderful. Maybe the key was to take yourself completely seriously, the way Erlich did, instead of being your own sharpest critic. He’d like to walk over to Gilfoyle one day, once the others had drifted away to bed or gone out, and lean over him and— his mind stuttered out on the thought, heart beating fiercely in his chest. 

For all Erlich’s fussiness the kitchen seemed to be coated in a layer of grime that never shifted. Dinesh got his favourite noodle mug down from its shelf, washed it thoroughly—who the hell knew who had used it last and whether they’d put it in the dishwasher or straight back into the cupboard—and put water on to boil. He leaned back into the bench and closed his eyes for a minute. Erlich’s raised voice could be heard from the direction of the pool, undetermined banging sounds emanated from Jian Yang’s room at the end of the hallway, Richard and Jared’s quiet voices could be heard from the living room. Gilfoyle had disappeared from the work area into his room mid-morning, claiming he needed peace and quiet to think. His door was slightly ajar; Dinesh had noticed while walking to the bathroom earlier.

Gilfoyle was probably lying on his bed, one of his arms stretched up behind his head. He’d have taken his glasses off and put them on his bedside table. His shirts would have ridden up with the stretch of his arm, showing the belt of his jeans and maybe a sliver of skin above. He’d have his eyes closed, his headphones on, be lost in a wall of sound. Maybe Dinesh could knock quietly and push the door open, cross the room and lie down full length beside him on the bed. Nothing would be said. And after a while Dinesh would leave just as quietly and go back to work, refreshed.

The water boiled and Dinesh broke a noodle cake into his mug, sprinkled in the flavoring and poured water over it. He leaned on the bench, closing his eyes again while he waited a few minutes for the noodles to cook.

Someone brushed against his shoulder and he froze. It was Gilfoyle, getting himself a glass of water from the tap. He was wearing flip-flops and looked sleepy as he stood beside Dinesh and drank the whole glass in one long series of swallows. His throat was long and lean and Dinesh stared at it, hypnotised by the movements as he drank. Gilfoyle wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and refilled the glass halfway, drinking that down too. Then he plunked the glass down on the bench, yawned, and shuffled back into the workroom. Dinesh felt rooted to the floor, his skin warm where Gilfoyle’s arm had touched his. Maybe he could walk back into the work room and over to Gilfoyle and—

He stayed in place, braced against the bench, shallow breathing, until Richard and Jared’s voices got louder and suddenly they were in the kitchen too, grabbing cans from the fridge and sitting at the table, all the while keeping up a constant flow of words about daily active users and burn rate and when to release the next build. To Dinesh it was a wall of noise, rushing past his eardrums. Moving sluggishly like he was underwater, he picked up his noodles and went back to the work room. He sat down at his computer and opened his twitter feed, still half-dazed but with just enough presence of mind to force himself to keep his eyes away from Gilfoyle.

He’d started wearing his chain again a few days ago, just to see if he could get a rise out of Gilfoyle. But he hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t even looked at it. Dinesh knew the chain was tacky, but he wanted Gilfoyle to look at him, and he still thought the gold looked nice against his skin. He imagined Gilfoyle pushing him down and leaning over him, kissing and licking his neck around the chain—

Fuck. He pulled himself together and focused on the code.

 

 

“Dinesh.” 

Deep in a twitter dive something vaguely battered against his consciousness.

“Dinesh!” He looked up.

“Dinesh!” Gilfoyle was as impassive as ever. He got more intense, but never louder. 

“What?” he snapped. “I could have been coding.”

Gilfoyle backed his swivel chair over and swung in behind his screen. “When you’re on twitter the lower half of your face goes completely slack. It’s a giveaway.”

Dinesh reflexively ran his hand over his jaw. “What do you want, Gilfoyle? I was knee deep in a social justice war.”

Gilfoyle awkwardly leaned over his shoulder to get a better view of his screen, the side of his chair crashing into Dinesh’s. 

“Piss off.” Dinesh closed the window. 

“Coffee?” said Gilfoyle. 

“It’s nearly midnight!” He brushed his shoulder where Gilfoyle’s beard was now tickling as he continued to encroach on Dinesh’s personal space. 

“It’s gonna be a late night. Come on.”  
  
Dinesh sighed, pretending reluctance. But he nudged his chair back, dislodging Gilfoyle, and stood up.

Gilfoyle stood too, and holding his hand out opened his palm to reveal Erlich’s car keys. They grinned at each other. 

 

 

An hour later they were back home, thoughts of working evaporated, idly hashing out a plan to disrupt coffee in Silicon Valley.

The culture’s just so oppressive,” said Dinesh. “There are so many egregious options—is this how I’m supposed to be defining myself? Am I a half-caff-pumpkin-spice-soy-latte-drinking tourist, or an Americano-drinking purist? For fuck’s sake—why is it such bullshit? Why can’t a man just buy a coffee and be done with it?”

“Or a woman,” said Gilfoyle.

“And have it delivered to his, or her, door. With plenty of foam.” said Dinesh. 

“We could be DoorDash, but only do coffee,” said Gilfoyle. “And we’d make it ourselves, none of this collecting and delivering fuckery. It would come with attitude.”

Dinesh sat up in excitement. “Drive up in an unmarked van. Ring the doorbell. Here’s your coffee, mutha-fucka!” 

“We offer nothing else,” said Gilfoyle. “One product, no variations, no frills, no smile, no chit chat.” He turned to look at Dinesh. “Black coffee. No foam.”

“The people want foam.” said Dinesh.

“No foam. Foam makes people soft. You can’t disrupt anything with foam.” 

“It’d be epic. That’s what’s wrong with all these damn start-ups. Too much choice.”

“People don’t want choice, they want to be told what’s good for them,” said Gilfoyle. 

 

 

2am and Dinesh was back in his room, alone. He had the achy feeling he got after spending too many hours around Gilfoyle. A sour, sore feeling in his heart, that fit nicely with being strung out on coffee and beer and talking shit for hours. And too much sitting at a computer all day every day. He needed to get out more. Meet some people who weren’t Gilfoyle. 

He pressed play on Spotify and lay back on his unmade bed to try and relax.

There was a quiet knock on the door. He lurched up onto his elbows.

“Richard, I don’t want to play tonight. Not in the mood,” he called out. 

“It’s not Richard, you chump. And I don’t want to play words with friends or whatever lame-ass game you and he play at this god-forsaken hour.”

“What do you want, Gilfoyle? It’s two in the morning and I don’t have a copy of Java for Dummies.”  
  
There was silence for a few moments. Dinesh wondered if Gilfoyle had gone away. Then, finally “Can I come in?”

Dinesh sat all the way up and frantically kicked some crap under his bed, pulled up the covers over the pillow. 

“Why?”

“I feel like talking.”  
  
“We’ve been talking all night! Can’t you message me?”

Dinesh’s phone pinged. A facebook alert from Gilfoyle. _Let me in, dickwad._

“Fuck it. Come in,” said Dinesh. 

Gilfoyle opened the door and walked in, closing it after him. He sat in the desk chair next to Dinesh’s bed and rested his left foot on his right knee. His foot was jiggling. He clasped his hands, and then he rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and finally he leaned forward on his elbows. 

“Gilfoyle, I’m meditating at the end of a stressful day. I don’t need you in here trying out poses for your imaginary Wired cover. 

Gilfoyle looked up at him with his straightforward and impossible to read gaze. 

“I want to discuss the elephant in the room,” he said, and kept staring at Dinesh. 

Dinesh felt the blood rush away from his heart. “What elephant?” he said.

“The elephant that’s made from sexual tension,” replied Gilfoyle, without a flicker of emotion.

Dinesh felt his body go cold from shock. His head became too heavy to hold up any longer and it sagged forward, hiding his face from Gilfoyle. 

“What sexual tension,” he tried to say, but it came out a whisper.

“Your fucking hormones are distracting me, Dinesh. They’re making it hard for me to work. I can feel you lusting at me at random times of the day and night from all the way across the room.”

The cold feeling was instantly replaced by a full-body flush of embarrassment. This was horrifying. How did Gilfoyle know?

“I’m not here to humiliate you, I’m here to find a solution.”

Dinesh forced himself to look up and meet Gilfoyle’s eyes. They weren’t cruel or mocking or even sardonic. They were expressionless.

“What kind of a solution?”

Gilfoyle hesitated. “I see three scenarios, each with several potential outcomes.”

Dinesh nodded. They were on slightly less terrifying and more familiar ground if they were talking scenarios and outcomes.

“Scenario 1,” said Gilfoyle, “You find a girlfriend, or boyfriend. This shifts the focus of your sexual desire away from me.” Dinesh cringed, but Gilfoyle ignored his reaction. “Outcome 1: It becomes an ongoing thing. Problem solved. Outcome 2: It doesn’t work out—leading to emotional fallout—but your feelings of angst and rejection revolve around the person who dumped you, keeping the focus away from me. Problem solved.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dinesh tried, weakly. 

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Dinesh. Scenario 2: One of us agrees to leave Pied Piper, and the house. If I’m not in proximity to you the problem is solved for me immediately. And although I don’t care, for the sake of balance there are two possible outcomes for you. Outcome 1: Without me on your daily radar the spell is broken, the feelings eventually fade, and your sexual attraction to me naturally dies. Problem solved. Outcome 2: Without me on your daily radar you’re still hopelessly pining, but loneliness forces you to get out and make some friends. Interactions with other people gradually lead to sexual opportunities. It’ll take time, but again, your feelings for me will eventually die. Problem solved.”

“I’m really not into the idea of leaving Pied Piper and the house.”

“Don’t interrupt. Scenario 3: We have a trial sexual relationship.” Dinesh’s heart started beating wildly, his hands broke out in a sweat, it was hard to get any air—was he having a panic attack? Completely uninterested in Dinesh’s state, Gilfoyle forged onwards. “Outcome 1: The reality does not reflect your fevered imaginings and you tire of me quickly. Problem solved. Outcome 2: After the period of the trial you’re still into it, but I’m not. This leads to pulling the trigger on Scenario 2—the most drastic solution—but we have the data to prove it’s necessary. Problem solved. Outcome 3: We’re both into it. Problem solved.”

Silence filled the room. Gilfoyle was relaxed, his leg no longer jiggling. His face was still expressionless, and he gazed frankly at Dinesh. 

Dinesh stood up and started pacing in the small space. He had to keep moving. 

“How would it work? Scenario 3,” he asked, hating himself for being so stupidly vulnerable, his voice thin with the strain. “Is that a real option, or just a thought experiment?”  
  
“It began as a thought experiment,” said Gilfoyle, “But after some consideration it became clear to me that it’s the best solution. Scenario 1 requires you to find a sexual partner who’s interested in an ongoing thing. We can’t guarantee a start date for that. It could take months for you to find someone, and while we’re waiting for that to happen I’m suffering. Scenario 2, as mentioned, is drastic and disruptive. It would be much easier to pull the trigger on it if we’d exhausted all other options. Scenario 3 has two advantages over the others; it’s less drastic than 2, and unlike 1 we can begin immediately.”

Dinesh stopped pacing, facing away from Gilfoyle and staring at the door. “Are you seriously suggesting we try Scenario 3?” 

“I am. It’s the optimal solution.”

Dinesh turned. Gilfoyle’s face hid nothing, yet betrayed nothing. 

Dinesh finally felt the devastating weight of the insult. “Can you please go away now?” he said. He opened the door wide, and without looking at Gilfoyle sat down on his bed and picked up a book, pretending to read. 

There was no movement from Gilfoyle’s chair. 

“Well done, Gilfoyle. I hope you enjoyed that. Now fuck off and leave me in peace!”

Gilfoyle still didn’t move. “I’m serious, Dinesh. Let’s do this,” he said. 

“You’re being fucking offensive, Gilfoyle. Yeah, great, you found a weakness, how hard would it be not to push in the knife?”

Gilfoyle sighed and Dinesh was unable to stop himself glancing at him. He was rubbing his eyes under his glasses again. He looked tired. “I’m not here to push the knife in,” he said. “I’m here with no agenda other than finding a way to solve this problem for both of us.”

“By mocking me? By suggesting something you clearly find repulsive? How is that going to help me? Or you?”

“I don’t find it repulsive, Dinesh. Not at all. I like people, you’re a person. There are many things about you that I like. Let’s give it a try.”

Dinesh stood up, grabbed his laptop, and stormed out of his room and out of the house. 

 

 

4am. Dinesh was sitting in the nearest 24 hour McDonald’s, nursing a black coffee. He’d spiralled back to a half-numb-normal via twitter, tumblr, celebrity instagram, a detour through reddit, stack overflow and finally back into coding. Deep in the work his embarrassment and anger at Gilfoyle being able to see right through him and worse, using it to brutally troll him, had dulled, but he was still waiting for the excruciatingly painful bit—the tiny shoot of hope that had sprung up in his heart—to wither away and die. 

Gilfoyle was a cold bastard, he’d proved it beyond a doubt. He’d been wrong thinking that they had each other’s backs. He didn’t think the sick, warped thing their friendship had turned out to be could survive this. Maybe it _was_ time for Scenario 2. 

He vaguely noticed the doors opening and closing and heard someone ordering a coffee. Then footsteps approached and he looked up to see Gilfoyle sliding into the seat opposite. Something was off; Gilfoyle’s eyes, instead of being blank, had some sort of hard-to-read feeling in them.

Dinesh knew if he had any pride he would stand up and leave. But he couldn’t do it. His sad, pathetic heart had flooded with life and warmth again and he desperately wanted to hear what Gilfoyle had to say. 

Gilfoyle waited until he had Dinesh’s eyes steady on him. “Hey Dinesh,” said Gilfoyle. “I’m sorry, that was cruel of me.” 

Dinesh was stunned. “Okay.”

Gilfoyle’s coffee arrived. They sat at the table together, not talking. But Dinesh felt his tension ease. He went back to coding, and Gilfoyle stayed at the table with him, neither talking nor interrupting. Dinesh got lost in the flow and when he looked up at 6am Gilfoyle was still there, his hands clasped around his mug, waiting.

They walked home as the desultory sun rose over the valley and spent the day working together without interruption. 

 

 

3:30am. Dinesh couldn’t sleep. His mind was racing, obsessed with images of Gilfoyle sitting in his desk chair, calmly delivering his recitation of scenarios. And all he really wanted was for Gilfoyle to sit in that chair, idly working on his laptop, scrolling through twitter on his phone, joking around with him, daily, hourly, any time he felt like it. For that to be something he did. And then one day he might lean over— 

Dinesh tried to focus his mind on the bug he’d been working on, hoping he’d forget about Gilfoyle and drift away.

He was half-asleep when his door eased open. He opened his eyes to see Gilfoyle in the doorway, a darker silhouette against the dark with a glint of light on the edge of his glasses. 

Dinesh sat up, body flooding with tension. “Can I come in?” asked Gilfoyle, softly. 

“Yes,’ Dinesh replied, his voice strained. 

Gilfoyle closed the door behind him and sat down in the chair. He was equally tense, leaning forward, displaying none of the nonchalance of earlier. Dinesh noticed his hands were gripping the edge of the chair.

“I want to try Scenario 3,” Gilfoyle said, impossibly, making Dinesh feel lightheaded like he’d been drinking—his thoughts wheeling and his throat tight. 

“Will you let me try?” asked Gilfoyle. “Yes,” Dinesh tried to say but his voice was trapped in his throat. When he didn’t reply Gilfoyle reached out and drew his fingers gently down Dinesh’s arm, leaving a warm pathway on his skin. He took his glasses off and placed them on the desk. He edged off the chair and onto the bed. It dipped under his weight and then he was right there, as close as Dinesh had ever wished, in the quiet and the dark, only a handspan away. 

“Will you let me, please?” insisted Gilfoyle.

“Yes,” said Dinesh, in a whisper, barely finding his voice. But he couldn’t move his body. He felt under a spell, as though in moving, it would break. So Gilfoyle put his hands on Dinesh’s shoulders and carefully pushed him down on the bed. Moving deliberately he eased his body over until he was lying on top of Dinesh, bracing his weight on his arms, his hands cradling the sides of Dinesh’s head. Dinesh felt drowned in sensation, pressure all along his body, Gilfoyle’s musky sweet presence seeping into his brain. 

“Okay?” asked Gilfoyle. 

“Yes,” said Dinesh. It was too dark to read the expression in Gilfoyle’s eyes. But he no longer cared if this was real or a test, a scientific experiment or a long-troll, it was too good, too sweet, and even if this was all he would ever get he’d take it, he’d drink it dry. With that thought the spell on his body broke and he reached up and placed his hands on Gilfoyle’s back, pulling him down, dragging their bodies together, running his hands over Gilfoyle’s ribs and into the small of his waist, slipping down under his t-shirt and dragging temporary grooves into the cool skin of his back. He couldn’t get over how beautiful Gilfoyle felt under his hands, he couldn’t get enough of touching him. He used the pressure of his hands to demand that Gilfoyle let his full weight down onto his body. Gilfoyle’s head was close to his now, his breath was coming fast, and Dinesh took advantage, arched up underneath him and pulled down on his shoulders until they were kissing. Gilfoyle’s control broke and Dinesh felt the drag of their bodies against each other as Gilfoyle gripped his head, lifting him off the bed and dragging his tongue through Dinesh's mouth. He kissed Dinesh again and again, shifting every time to get a deeper and deeper angle, desperately trying to seal them together. 

“Fuck, Dinesh,” he groaned, breaking for air, and Dinesh found the strength to roll them over. He climbed on top of Gilfoyle and took over, licking his mouth open again and dipping deep inside. He reached down and felt Gilfoyle was already hard and that was enough to make him lose control. If all he could ever do was hold Gilfoyle down and kiss deeply into his mouth, kiss deeply enough that Gilfoyle would never forget, that this moment would be imprinted in their memories forever, he’d be happy.

 

 

But he didn’t have to be happy with only that. In the morning Gilfoyle got up, put a t-shirt on, went to the kitchen and brought them back cups of terrible instant coffee, black because they’d run out of cream. Gilfoyle took a sip and then straddled Dinesh, slopping Dinesh’s coffee onto the sheets. With a grin Gilfoyle rubbed the stain into the sheets and then firmly placed Dinesh’s cup on the desk. He pulled off his t-shirt and took Dinesh’s head in his hands. He tasted sleep-drugged and stale and they kissed and kissed until all Dinesh could taste was Gilfoyle.


End file.
